


In Addendum

by CommonNonsense



Series: Ficlets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confessions, First Kiss, Fix-it fic, Fluff, M/M, Mary's there for reasons, mostly because it's necessary, mostly before I decided I'm not fond of her relationship with John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:30:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he boards the plane, Sherlock speaks his mind in full.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Addendum

**Author's Note:**

> I keep trying to fix S3 but it's not working

_Not again_ , John thinks as the car pulls up to the runway, where a white jet waits. There are a few figures milling around on the tarmac. Mary is at his side in the car, her hand wrapped around his, though her gaze is out the other window.

He is careful to keep his feelings quiet, but that is the thought at the forefront of his mind: _Sherlock is leaving again._

This time, he knows Sherlock won’t be dead. He’ll simply be gone, without contact, and it’s unlikely they’ll meet again. He’ll be gone, but he’ll be alive and well. No blood on the pavement or stilled pulse under John’s fingertips.

Just gone.

Again.

John takes a deep breath before getting out of the car. Mary flashes him a brief, reassuring smile as his hand pulls away from hers.

Sherlock is waiting with Mycroft a short distance from the plane, his hands in his pockets and his coat collar turned up. John feels disconnected as the conversation unfolds. Mary promises to keep him in trouble, which makes him smile a little; Sherlock hugs her, laughing. John keeps his hands behind his back in fear that they’ll begin trembling and betray him.

“John?” Being directly addressed finally forces John’s mind back into the present. He blinks and looks up at Sherlock, whose gaze is soft and thoughtful. “I wanted to speak with you alone, before I go. Do you mind?” This is directed at Mary, who acquiesces with a nod and steps away. John and Sherlock are left alone on the tarmac.

A gentle breeze picks up, ruffling Sherlock’s hair and coat. John follows the movement of Sherlock’s errant curls with his eyes, thinking idly of how he wants to push them away from Sherlock’s face. He’s never had the opportunity to do it, and he’s about to lose the chance entirely.

“Well,” Sherlock says. John smiles, because that seems like what he’s supposed to do. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for awhile. Always meant to, but I never got around to it, and since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, now seems like as good a time as any.”

John raises his eyebrows expectantly. His heart gives an extra hard thump under his breastbone. Sherlock’s so strange that he could be keeping any number of weird secrets and any one of them is as legitimate as the last—including the one he’s afraid of the most.

Sherlock pauses, then confesses: “Sherlock is a girl’s name.”

The proclamation, delivered so seriously, is enough to make John laugh outright. Some of the tension dissolves from his shoulders as he chuckles. “No, it’s not.”

“Worth a shot.” Sherlock’s grin is bright, almost luminous. It hurts to think John may never see it again.

While John’s smothering his giggles, Sherlock adds, “Also, I’m in love with you.”

John’s laughter dies in his throat. He hazards a look up.

Sherlock’s gaze is steel, piercing and hard and the color of burnished metal with his back to the sun. Any trace of humor has been banished from his expression. His shoulders and spine are perfectly straight, his figure unmoving where the wind does not force it.

“What?” John whispers.

“I thought I would mention it when I returned from abroad—still sorry about that, by the way—but, well.” Sherlock smiles ruefully. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I figured it would be less appreciated with Mary in the picture.”

John finally manages to compose himself enough to respond. “You’re serious,” he says in wonder. “And you never thought to mention it? How long has this been going on? You wanted to wait until _now_ to—Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I’m not going to see you again and you’re going to tell me this now?”

“It seemed appropriate. I can hardly ruin anything with it if I’m not here.”

John exhales a stuttering breath. “God, Sherlock. You wouldn’t have.”

“Well, it’s a bit late to dwell on how you think you would have reacted to the news back then, isn’t it?” Sherlock swallows; the bob of his Adam’s apple is the only sign that he’s not nearly so unaffected as he’s attempting to project.

“You should have told me. I—” John cuts himself off, not knowing what he’s going to say. God, Mary’s all of fifty feet away and he’s about tell his best friend that he’s in love with him, too. There’s so much wrong here that he can’t even begin to process it all.

Sherlock’s look is softer, hesitant now. He steps forward, into John’s space; he’s never been fond of respecting personal boundaries, but this time is laden with meaning. John’s been in this position enough times to know what’s going to happen, but his mind still whites out with shock when Sherlock’s lips brush his. It’s a featherlight touch, Sherlock leaning down to kiss him instead of making John stretch up. John can practically feel the sorrow and doubt radiating from every stilted movement and realizes that he cannot, will not let Sherlock leave today without a confirmation—perhaps not of what they could be, not anymore, but of the fact Sherlock was never, ever alone in this.

John tilts his head and straightens up, willingly giving Sherlock the kiss he thought he was stealing.

He wants to make it last. He wants to seize Sherlock by the lapels and drag him down, kiss him slowly and lovingly for hours and hours, run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and wrap his arms around that lovely neck and just keep Sherlock, safe and protected against his chest and _with_ him.

John does none of these things. There are still boundaries and they’ve run out of time.

Sherlock is the one to break away, pressing his lips to John’s once, then twice, before inhaling a slow breath and opening his eyes. John struggles to find something to say, but there is nothing else at this point.

Sherlock is the one to break the silence. He steps back and stands upright, his veneer of invincibility clicking back into place.

“Good-bye, John,” he says.

“Take care of yourself,” John replies quietly.

Sherlock turns away and strides toward the plane, where Mycroft is waiting. John walks back to Mary, an apology already on his tongue, but she just shakes his head.

“I’m a lot more observant than either of you seem to think,” she says, slipping her hand into his.

In silence, they watch the plane take off together.


End file.
